


Zwei Liebhaber

by thebicolouredhydra



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Light BDSM, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 16:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebicolouredhydra/pseuds/thebicolouredhydra
Summary: A multi-part self-indulgence





	1. Zuerst

He badgered you relentlessly. In his own way. Medic is not as brash and obvious as Scout, but you wonder if he’s learned a liquid slyness from Spy over the years; a startling seduction that evinces more velvet than steel.

At least you were alone when the first overture came. You can only guess at what the expression on your face must have been while you attempted to determine what the Doctor was getting at. The choice of words and interwoven threads of meaning clashed so starkly with what you had expected that comprehension eluded you. He was subtle, but once your brain snapped back into gear you realised what he was trying to communicate. You suppose you must have gaped from the way his smile widened into something predacious. He told you to think about it, and left you in the kitchen pouring juice on your trousers instead of in your glass, his boots clicking their retreat like a fingernail tapping the polished surface of a table. Waiting. Patient.

The fact that you never outright said “no” not only fuelled his persistence but also revealed to yourself that whilst it had never occurred to you, it didn’t mean that you weren’t interested once the idea was broached.

“But Heavy…” you’d stammered the fifth time he asked, his arm barricading you on one side when it had looked like you were going to bolt. The bone-white fabric of his coat was splashed with blood and you don’t know whether it was the metallic tang or the forceful brightness of it that induced the wildness in the size of his pupils. You knew the last thing you wanted was to stand between the giant Russian and his Medic, and you had no idea what game the Doctor was playing in propositioning you.

Your hesitation just made him chuckle. “He knows.” One hand rested against the wall next to your head, and he had caged you completely. You saw his nostrils flare as he leaned in, and you froze. “Zwei Liebhaber,” he sighed in your ear. “It is better. We can show you.” The heat from his breath slid down your neck. And then he was gone. You stayed glued to the wall, shaking in fear. Not of what he had said, but of how badly you had wanted it.

After that, Heavy was always there when the Doctor asked. The monolith’s expression never changed as the Medic wooed you in his unique, gently coaxing manner that was so at odds with the mathematical precision of his movements and his appearance. You had no idea if Heavy approved or disapproved. That was a key piece of information that the smaller man had neglected to give you, but you took it as a good sign that the Russian wasn’t swinging those enormous fists in your direction. You’d seen the damage they could cause and the thought of what his hands could do to you in an amatory setting made you quail. Quail, and then hunger for it.

Overwhelm isn’t something you’ve ever sought in the bedroom, but now you cannot help but wonder at the advantages of it. By himself Medic could easily overpower and dominate you, but it would pale in comparison to the strength that Heavy had at his disposal. Together they could bend you to whatever end they desired and you would have no say in the matter. It frightens you when you think of the potential damage. It excites you when you think of the possible indulgence.

It would be more muscle and flesh and touch than you have ever experienced, a matchless loss of control and a delectable intimacy. 

Medic must have seen the awareness in your eyes of the wanton abandonment in his invitation when he cornered you for the the final time, Heavy’s shadow throwing you both into darkness. The Doctor’s smile broadened and his pupils dilated as he edged closer to you, so close that you could feel the heat of his body seeping through your clothes. For one brief moment you thought he was going to run the tips of his fingers down your neck, but his hand pulled back. How he managed to caress you without touching was a practiced cruelty from the ease with which he achieved it.

You couldn’t stop yourself from leaning towards him as he arched down to whisper in your ear, from smelling the assured maleness of his body, from seeing the victorious need in the blue of his eyes. The promise he made bound a silken rope around your frame. “Later.”

What happened between that moment and the knock on your door is forever lost to you.

He had not said where, but whether that was determined from the way you’d hid in your room or the fact that they had not found you outside of it since the matter had been decided is irrelevant. This will be a house call of a very different kind. A cure for the malady you’d not known you had fallen prey to.

The Doctor and his retinue of one glide into the room, the effect only slightly wrinkled by Heavy’s need to duck in order to clear the top of the doorframe. Or perhaps it is a premonition. You’ve never been as aware of his size until now, never as conscious of how the Medic manages to seem in command of a man so large.

You close the door and have barely turned from it when the Doctor’s hands are clasped around your face, his mouth on yours. There is to be little preamble to this strange arrangement. Maybe the weeks of veiled suggestions were that preamble. Nevertheless, the keenness with which Medic tastes your mouth is stark and surprising. His hands pull gently to lead you away from the door, his lips never leaving yours, tongue deliquescent as it coaxes yours towards his. The flavours of his kiss are dark and dangerous, the slight scrape of stubble against your skin a beautiful contrast.

You’re maneuvered around to sit on the bed, and you jump slightly as you find that Heavy is already there, one hand slipping around your front to pull you back against the broad curve of his body, his legs bracketing yours, holding you in place as Medic finally releases you.

The assuredness with which he undresses is fascinating to see. There is none of the arrogance of youth that would make a spectacle of the performance. The play of muscles in his forearms as he unbuttons his waistcoat catches your eye. You’ve sneaked looks at the Doctor’s bare arms before but to do so now, so openly, makes the blood rise in your cheeks. Or perhaps the timidity that rises with the heat comes from the fact that he never takes his eyes off you. So he can see where you’re looking, can watch the reaction on your face as his tie slips free of its knot and his shirt slides off his shoulders. The squeezing thud of your heart is surely strong enough for Heavy to feel through your ribs, the increasing cadence vibrating against the palm of his hand, though whether the slight pressure of his fingers under your chest is an acknowledgement of this involuntary betrayal or a sign of his own interest in Medic’s divestment is unknown.

The leather belt slithers free of fabric loops to wrap once around Medic’s palm. He tilts his head a fraction to one side as if considering his options, the belt’s length pulled taut between his hands. Dear god, you think, what is he planning to do with that? He must have caught the apprehension in your expression, baring his teeth as his smile widened. The belt slips free of his hands, the metal buckle making a dull thump as it hits the floor.

Medic pauses as he hooks the toe of one boot into the heel of the other. The slight disappointment in your eyes is something he toys with before denying the secret pleasure you hold at the thought of being fucked by a man in such striking footwear. You push your lower lip out in response. You grudgingly suppose that belt and boots cancel each other out this time.

Once his trousers have unclasped his waist, you can see his form unfettered: the broadness of his chest, the narrowness of his hips and the muscular length of his legs… why he cuts such a sharp figure in his uniform. There is no slouch in his posture, no pulling gravidity from age or inactivity. His maturity has done nothing but perfect his physique. Greek gods have nothing in comparison to this teuton. Your eyes drop. Definitely nothing in comparison! Your anticipatory shudder is answered by a low rumble in Heavy’s chest, the back of one finger stroking down the angle of your neck.

Medic is not so crass as to jam himself in your face the way a younger man might, holding himself just far enough away to entice you to reach for him. But once your hands have grasped his hips, he moves forward to make your devouring easier. His fingers thread through your hair as you lap at his flesh, and he croons encouragement in words that are familiar in sound but devoid of meaning to you. You have never learned his language beyond a few basics but you’re pretty certain he’s not talking about his family or the price of butter. He’s content to let you do what you wish with you mouth and your hands, but the grip he has on your hair tells you when he is most approving. And you find that you want his approval. Very much.

The Doctor has the self control to prevent you from taking him too far down the path to completion, but your mouth is not empty for long. There is a sucking eagerness in the way he steals the taste of himself off your lips as he strips the lower half of your body. Your shirt is pushed up and your body freed of constraint to allow him to stroke and enjoy what he uncovers. He pushes you back firmly against Heavy’s stomach, kneeling down to hook your thighs over his shoulders. His training gives him an unerring guidance to where he knows you want him to go. There is breath-taking sweetness in his hands and a shockingly alluring sin in his mouth. He uses both heaven and hell to break you against the stoic rock behind you. Or not so stoic. Heavy’s girth is not insignificant, but it cannot hide how much he is appreciating what he sees. If what you feel pressing into your back is what you think it is, there’ll be some substantial physical challenges ahead of you. But with Medic’s tongue teasing a slippery honey from you, you cannot muster much anxiety over what the giant behind you will do once it’s his turn.

A finger hooks the bridge of his glasses to remove them from his face, and the Doctor burrows even deeper, his nose replacing where his tongue has swirled and beleaguered. He doesn’t stay there long, raising his head and shifting forward to exchange his tongue for something more sizeable, harder, thicker. He murmurs incomprehensibly into your ear as his hips rock gently to ease his way inside you, one hand splayed across your abdomen, thumb stretched out and down to find that special spot. Once Medic has pushed in as far as he can go, he withdraws completely, relishing the muscular squeeze your body bestows on him. Sinking in and out in a perfect, precise rhythm, he thrusts you against his Russian lover with increasing determination, that questing thumb stripping away what little poise you had until you’re no longer ashamed of the sighs that fall from your mouth. The hooking drag and spearing impalement is an utter delight, and you revel in the tightness that comes from being so nicely filled. The sheen of sweat on his body increases as he strokes into you, and the signature dark cowlick of his hair becomes dampened and flattened against his forehead. Heavy brushes his thumb against the Medic’s temple to clear the black strands aside and the Doctor raises his eyes to yours, so bright and large without his glasses to shield them. You know what he’s going to demand of you a fraction of a second before he gives it voice, but the guttural, hissing reality of it is a titillating thrill.

“Say it.”

You refuse, clamping your mouth closed to swallow the automatic reflex, your palms blindly reading the rippling motion of the muscles in his back.

His eyes narrow and he increases both pressure and speed to convince you.

“Say it!”

It almost slips out, your clamped mouth already forming the start of the word, but still you deny him, because you know that as soon as you say it, you’ll be dragged up the mountain with nothing to stop you from falling off the summit.

He brings his mouth close to yours. “Liebling, you know I can fuck it out of you even if it takes hours but it is not nice to keep Heavy waiting. He’s been so very patient, you know.” The Doctor sucks gently on your lower lip, trying to draw your unwillingness out of it. Your legs are locked tightly around his hips, warring with the need to crush him against you and the desire for that delicious repeating ingress into you to continue. “Say it!”

And you do. More of a gasp than speech.

“Lauter, mein Taube,” he admonishes you, his thumb circling. “So I can hear you.”

Now it is more groan than gasp.

“Weider. Again.”

Your fingernails dig into his back as the word is ripped from you.

“Medic.”

A desperate word, given sound in need, but this time not in pain.

His hips shift and alter motion, turning the thrust into a grind.

“Again!” His voice has become as demanding as his body.

“Medic!”

“Again!” His perfect teeth nip at your neck in determined encouragement.

“Medic!”

“Again! Say it until you come! I want to hear you beg for me!”

You don’t know if it’s his words or the ragged desperation with which he says them, but god help you, you beg. Guiltlessly. Each time, his body shudders in response, what control he had now in tatters and he answers each call in the asperous sounds of his native tongue. His thumb presses down and rocks from side to side. And you fall, crying out his name as he rides you mercilessly through your orgasm. Until you feel surge of his own carnal aiguille inside you and his mouth swallows the final time you call for him. It hooks you up to a ledge away from the cold end of your descent, and what you think is the Doctor’s utter exhaustion is little more than a brief pause. His hands grab your hips as he slides out of your body, flipping you over onto your front.

The sharp crack of his palm hitting your bottom makes you flinch.

“Take him!”

The command is delivered with every confidence of being obeyed, but how can you possibly domineer this colossus under you? It is a ludicrous dictate, but you see the glint in the Russian’s eyes, the flare of his nostrils and the colour high on his defined cheekbones and you realise that not only is he willing, but that you are eager to attempt it, to experience the devastating unspoken authority over this glorious killing machine.

Your palms slide up and over the swell of his stomach to his chest, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head so you can see the hulking shoulders and burly, robust pectorals. Your hands cannot encompass enough of his frame so your mouth is employed hungrily as you explore his body, pushing back firmly until he is prone, pressing your face into a softness that cloaks an iron-hard musculature, tickling your nose in the hair on his chest. His scent is so different to Medic’s that now you could easily tell them apart in the dark. Heavy’s neck is bullish where Doctor’s is sculptured and the slope of the muscles lead down to the clean definition of his shoulders. The expectancy on his face draws you closer, and the soothing stroke of his hand across the stinging welt Medic has given you strengthens your confidence.

You straddle his midriff and ghost your lips down the hawkish line of his nose. He tilts his head back to meet your mouth with his, the rumble of satisfaction rising up inside him and the scoop of his hands pulling you further up his body until you are forced to break your kiss. He positions you effortlessly and leaves you no time to back away from the suckling clasp of his mouth between your thighs. The broad, strong surface of his tongue washes over you and into you, drinking in the fusion of your clear lust with the pearly release Medic left inside you. Heavy doesn’t need to hold you still. You willingly let him lap you clean, your fingertips trailing over his smooth head and back to where the hair is recovering from the morning’s shave, finer than the dark stubble on his face that scuffs against your skin as he trails his tongue in the hollows between plump softnesses and the muscles of your thighs. The Russian could easily bring you to another orgasm like this, and at first it seems that is what he will do, nudging you to rock your hips and press against his face, eyes closed as he loses himself in the deed. Powerful arms hook over your thighs, pulling you down firmly until you worry he will suffocate, but the expert ripple of his tongue belies no distress. He takes his time, almost languid in the gentle, slow nod of his head as he eats you out thoroughly.

While you sigh and rolls your hips, you cannot help but think what he could do with other parts of his body. His hands are of such a size that the larger curves of your body would be lost if held in just one of them. His fingers alone could easily have the capacity to make you gasp. What he has between his own thighs… well, that might need some creative thinking. But first you have to see it in order to gauge just how far you’ll be able to go.

So you swing one leg to the side so you can leave the velvety embrace of his mouth and turn to face the other way. The Doctor is still kneeling between Heavy’s thighs, his arms propped on them so his hands sit, interlaced, under his chin. Watching you with half-lidded eyes and his lower lip trapped under his teeth. It would be coy on any other face, but on the Medic it is lasciviously desirous.

You try not to let that distract you as you fumble with Heavy’s belt, the long, thick shaft of his arousal pressing determinedly against the constriction of his trousers. Button and zip part easily, but you struggle to free him from the awkward angle his erection has been forced into. You have to use both hands to ease him out, the heat and pulse and girth even more impressive once you finally set your eyes on it. In perfect proportion to the rest of him. You have to resist the urge to sink your teeth into the lushness of it, but you don’t hold back from taking as much of him in as you can, hands encircling him firmly to stroke from frenulum to base and up again. You figure if Medic’s going to watch you, you might as well make it worth his while.

You worry that the scrape of your back teeth against Heavy’s turgid flesh will make the man withdraw from your efforts, but you don’t know how to avoid it. The width of him is a blatant fact that you struggle to manage, so you slide one hand lower to draw the firm roundnesses of his balls out from the opening of his trousers. The rolling, curling Russian words that unfurl from him sound pleased, so you continue to stroke and squeeze, mouth working slowly around him. You draw a sharp breath in through your nose as Heavy’s fingers pick up where his mouth left off, and it isn’t long before you get to experience just how good one of them feels inside you.

You cannot fathom how such large, powerful hands could be so lyrical and gentle. Hands that spend days clamped around the cold, solid metal of a strafing gun slide over and inside you as carefully as if you’d break. And while it thrills you that someone so strong can touch so delicately, it provokes a need in you to prove you’re not as fragile as that. So you rock backwards against his hands, burying his fingers deeper inside you while the length of his thumb gives the same unrelenting attention to your clit as your mouth is giving his cock. The digital orchestration alone is enough to make you gasp, and the smug grin plastered across the Medic’s face as he watches your composure fraction does little to help. You hiss your annoyance at him, but that just makes him laugh.

You know for certain now that there is no way you can fit that magnificent stanchion of flesh inside you, so you turn once again and straddle Heavy’s hips, pressing his arousal against your own, sliding up and along him in a sleek line, your upper arms pressing your breasts together as the flats of your palms keep his dick anchored tightly against you. Damp fingers trail across your flesh and chafe eagerly at hardening peaks before your breasts are enveloped in the firm, calloused embrace of his hands. Kneading and stroking. As you lean into this delicious massage, your body traps his cock against his stomach, your own hands bracing against his shoulders as you fuck him with an increasing ferocity. You can be rougher than you would ordinarily be. Penetrative sex has never quite had the same dizzying effect as this sort of lubricious frottage has on you, and you’ve never had such a perfect opportunity to indulge in your preference as now, and you’ll be damned if you waste it. It has the added advantage of asserting a certain level of dominance, of a hungry control over your bed mate. So you grind against Heavy’s body with as much strength as you can muster, feeling the pulse throbbing through him as you ride him, edging up gradually until the thick, firm head is right against its smaller counterpart. The way it parts your flesh as you undulate over it is perfection. Until Heavy pulls you down flat against him, one hand pressing solidly into your lower back to increase the pressure until your toes curl and you carve reddening furrows down his chest until you convulse in an orgasm so intense it greys out your vision. The splash of warmth across your abdomen and the bear-like snarl brings you down out of the intense throes of climax, too weak to do anything but let Heavy thrust back and forth along your body, his free hand pulling your hair to bring your head back far enough to see him writhe under you with each powerful gush of ejaculate, and you realise that you did not take him as much as he acquiesced to you.

“Zwei Liebhaber,” a voice breathes in your ear. “Just like I told you.” You grit your teeth at the smugness in the Doctor’s voice and silently praise the truth of his words as he slides his mouth down your body to show you again.


	2. Zweitens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Master, slave, and watcher

“Solnyshko.”

You stir, a small fish rising momentarily from the smooth, cool silt of deep sleep.

“Solnyshko?”

This time the word comes with a gentle touch on your shoulder, and the contact forces you to float to the surface. The corner of your mouth is damp - you’ve been drooling. Unsurprising, considering how tired you were. You drag the heel of your palm across your face and begin to sit up, wincing as the muscles in your neck grab. Falling asleep on the couch was a bad idea, and you knew you’d pay for it, but you’d been just so damn tired.

“You cannot sleep here. Is no good for you.”

You squint up, trying to match memory with the moment. You fail.

“What?”

“Is no good,” Heavy repeats patiently, looming over you with the light from the television throwing a glowing, bluish line around his frame. “Scout will draw on your face.”

A few choice swear words accompany your exhale as you creak into an upright position. The last time that donkey-braying idiot found you asleep he’d drawn a moustache on you that would’ve made Saxton Hale jealous. It had taken days to scrub it off. Lucky that Heavy had woken you this time. Scout had vowed to draw something far worse on you next time he found you dribbling on the couch in the rec room. You suppose that had something to do with you flushing his favourite running shoes down the toilet.

“God, I missed the end of the movie,” you mumble stupidly as Heavy helps you stand, trying to buy yourself some time to allow your brain to catch up to reality.

“Is bad movie. No loss,” Heavy assures you, shepherding you towards the door.

The lights in the corridor stab into your dry eyes and you scrub your hands against your face roughly to hide the bloom of awkwardness and self-consciousness. Your body had only just gotten over the recent and very thorough fucking you’d received: tender bruises from pressure points; stinging abrasions from friction of flesh against fabric and, at one stage, the floor; a smarting bite on your shoulder, and the sweet, throbbing soreness inside you… all faded as your uncertainty had grown.

They had both left before you had awoken. Perhaps that had been prudence on their part - a way to minimise advertising to others what had taken place - but considering how much noise they’d squeezed out of you, it seemed a little pointless. You’d been too tired to hear them leave anyway.

And later that morning, there had been no acknowledgement from either of them about what had taken place. No sly looks. No talk laden with double meaning. No body language that even hinted what had happened. For the best, really. To call it a tricky situation would be a chronic understatement, and if any of the others caught even a whiff of something scandalous, you’d never hear the end of it.

Your brain commended their discretion, but you cannot lie. The blank faces and the casual routine of movement stung. As if you had been a momentary dalliance; something to amuse them one evening, and once their fun had been extracted, that was the end of it.

You’d huffed a sigh out of your nose as you side-eyed at Medic sitting on the wooden bench next to his enormous partner, a slightly vacuous expression on his face, humming an unfamiliar tune. Heavy’s face was impassive, one giant hand running gently along the handle of his precious gun. You had to look away from that… it was far too suggestive. Well, too suggestive for you to deal with right at that moment.

Interestingly, you’d noticed the top of one of the scratches you’d torn down Heavy’s chest, just peeking above the white trim of his shirt collar. You’d felt bad about that when you’d seen what you’d done, but the contrition hadn’t lasted long, and Heavy had given no indication that he had taken offense to it. That the scratches were still there made you wonder at the reason. Medic could easily have erased all trace of your clawing, but he hadn’t. You’d wondered if he’d left the deep bite mark on his own inner thigh, and suppressed a smirk at that thought. Far from flinching at the sting of your teeth, he’d doubled over you, one hand fisted tight in your hair as the pulsing of his orgasm ran along the taut, hot length of him to splash repeatedly over your breasts, to be rubbed into your skin by Heavy’s kneading, thorough fingers as you squeezed the iron-hard thickness of his cock between your thighs. It had been the delicious, silky slide of his flesh hard against your clit that had made you bite the Doctor in the first place, the ripple of engorged veins pushing against that swollen, assailed bud of pleasure, turning you savage.

Dear god, even the remembrance of that has quickened your heartbeat and ravaged your cheeks like sunburn, but you cannot help but wish for more. They hadn’t been stingy with their attentions, and you had lapped it all up like a smug, prized cat. Your hunger for a repeat performance makes you feel selfish and greedy and demanding. It will keep you up until the early hours of the morning in sweating, gasping efforts to assuage your insolent libido, legs shaking and hands fatiguing, teeth clenched tight to moderate the moan of brief satiety.

And so you move to scuttle away from Heavy’s side towards your own quarters, to open any distance you can between you and his muscle-wrapped body and his seraphic hands and his plundering mouth and the scent of him that screams power and pleasure and persistence.

“Is wrong way.”

You freeze, the gravelly timbre of his voice travelling down your spine in an electric arcing that spears into soft, lush need.

“Come. Doctor will make you feel better.”

You risk a glance over your shoulder at him. “But I’m not feeling ill.”

The line of confusion between his brows is there only briefly. “Never said you were.” And there it is: the skyblue flash in his eyes that went straight to the heart of your addiction, that you’d seen each time you’d wrapped your body around his in desperate, edacious urgency, each time he’d tasted your flesh inside and out, each time he’d parodied pushing that glorious confirmation of his lust deep inside you. It nearly kicks your feet out from under you to leave you on your knees before him, reaching with desperate hands and a shamelessly eager throat.

“Come.” He turns away without bothering to see if you follow because he knows that you will, leading you to the door of his quarters.

“Is no need to worry,” he tells you gently, one hand resting on the closed door’s handle. “If you are scared, my name is safe word.”

“Heavy?”

His confusion lasts longer this time.

“I don’t know your name,” you remind him.

That surprises him for a moment. “I forget.” He tells you. When he says it, it is effortless and smooth and fitting. When you say it, it is corners and angles and faltering. He smiles slightly and tells you again, sounds curling and curving into warm whorls that make your body tighten in anticipation. He seems oddly amused by your second, only slightly less appalling rendition, but he is not cruel, and gives you a diminutive which is easier for you to repeat. You don’t get to practice it, for his mouth is on yours with soft insistence, the velvety slide of his tongue carrying with it the faint sting of clean alcohol and a cloaking sweetness of honey that marks your mouth as his.

“Do not let him bully you, solnyshko,” he tells you in the brief pauses between deep, almost suckling kisses. “Make him work hard. Make him do what you want. Make him sweat.”

“I don’t-”

You have no time to finish giving voice your confused thoughts as the door is opened and one large, firm hand propels you gently into the room.

You’ve never been in here before. Until recently there has been no reason to. Private quarters have always been that, although Scout treats yours like an extension of his own at times. But then, Scout has always had problems with boundaries.

In here, it is warm and much more spacious than your room. Considering Heavy is near twice the size of you, this seems only fair. Your eyes barely touch on the shelves of books lining the walls, not only because their presence is of little surprise to you but also because the light in the room is such that the corners are near hidden, cloaking everything in an ebony vignette that frames the patient focus at the centre. He’s standing at the foot of the large bed, resting back against the wooden frame so the line of his body is a sinuous curve, head tilted just a touch to one side to present both the distinct profile of his face and the muscular lines of his neck flowing away from the precise angles of his jawline and down to the bulked, shortened muscles of his arms folded over his bare torso. You wonder if he knows he has positioned himself in precisely the manner most attractive, most tempting to you, but this is a man who holds doves in his hands every day, who sees them fly and strut and preen and puff to attract the attention of a mate. He knows exactly how to court you, to coax you towards him, but the setting has made you hesitant, and the late hour has made you more sluggish in reaction to this careful and calculated display of masculine allurement. Heavy has to nudge you to convince you to move towards the man waiting for you, hands turning you to face this seemingly somnolent lure for your base desires.

His eyes open ever so slightly, the naturally darkened lids and shapely brows giving him an almost feline aspect as he studies you from behind his glasses. In your nervousness, your eyes flick over his body, appreciating the graceful contours of his collarbones, the dark hair on his chest that flows into a light stream down his front, over his taut stomach and between the firm rises of pronounced obliques to vanish behind the flat, matte silver buckle of his belt and below the waistband of his black trousers. They are of a cut you’ve never seen on him before, sitting lower on his hips, tighter around his thighs. And as your gaze travels down, you realise he has a special treat for you. His boots are always polished and precisely fitted, a supple leather binding that emphasises how well-turned his calves and ankles are, but the pair he’s wearing are new to you. There are no creases in the surface, no subtle erosion at the edges of the soles, the shaping of the toecap a touch blunter than his usual footwear. And the gleam of the leather is fractured up the inner calf by beautiful, curling lines of carving. You nearly drop to your knees to get a better look, to run your fingers along the embossed shapes and feel the beauty and artistry of them.

You know he must’ve seen the reflexive action of your body, and judging from the subtle curve of his mouth, he’s certain the arrow has struck its target, deep and dead centre.

“Do you know why you are here?”

The Doctor’s question makes you lean back slightly against Heavy’s solid paunch, uncertain of the answer. You shake your head, lips pressed tight together.

“I think it’s time our… discussion was pursued further.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Discussion? Is that what you call it?”

There is a glint of white teeth at your bemusement. “Well, that was more of a polite introduction before. I think there are… further complexities of communication that we can explore together.”

He uncrosses his arms and you see something held in his right hand that you hadn’t noticed: the long, slender shape of a riding crop. It’s not unlike the one Soldier owns, but more elegant, more decadent, the keeper at the tip wide and long and thick. The fingerless gloves on his hands are punctured with holes at the knuckles to allow the thin leather to stretch more easily with the flexing of his fingers.

And that’s when you notice what’s on the bed behind him and you know, almost for certain, what form this “conversation” is going to take.

“Then this will be a very short exchange,” you tell him, a spark of defiance giving a curt clip to your words that makes the Doctor’s eyebrows drift up in surprise. “I don’t like to be humiliated.”

For a moment, he seems dismayed, and you think it is because he realises that he will not have his fun, that the coil of black rope will remain unknotted, the straps unbuckled, and that flawless and unmistakably phallic length of clear glass unused.

“Is that what you assume I would do to you?” The unexpected anger in his voice catches you off-guard and now you do not know what to think. Fortunately he doesn’t wait for your answer. “I would never humiliate you unless you wanted it!” The Doctor’s hand is clenched tightly around the crop, held stiffly at his side. The sharp line between his brows and the rigidity to the set of his shoulders tells you that he has taken offense to your assumption.

The rumble in Heavy’s chest behind you startles you into thinking that he, too, is affronted, but you see the Doctor’s expression change and you realise that the warning had not been for you.

“Spokojno, Doctor,” is the placid admonition as Heavy strokes his hands down your sides to reassure you.

“Do you believe that I could do something to you that you didn’t want?” the German continues, less angry now, but more far more dispirited at what you had thought. “You would only have to say the safe word and I would stop, and even then do you think Heavy would let me go unpunished for anything done to you against your will? You would only have to breathe of it once to any of the men outside of this room and they would each send me through respawn until I begged for mercy. You would only have to hint at it to the Administrator and I would disappear forever!” He takes a step towards you, cautiously, so as not to alarm you. “You cannot know how much control, how much power you have,” he murmurs quietly. “Let me show you.”

“How?”

“Tell me what you want.”

You don’t know how to answer this, this question no bed mate has ever asked of you, but Heavy’s words come back to you.

“Do not let him bully you, solnyshko. Make him work hard. Make him do what you want. Make him sweat.”

It is difficult, at first, to give voice to pleasures you have imagined while alone, in the late hours of the night, in the darkness where no-one can see the blush of horrified shame in your cheeks or feel the demanding, relentless hunger in your body. And you watch for anything in his face that suggests he is amused or repulsed or shocked at what you ask of him, but all you see is the avidness in his eyes as the pupils dilate, the colour of eagerness spreading across his cheekbones and the steely zeal in the increasing tension in his body.

“Tell me what is forbidden.” His voice has deepened with the mounting excitement your words have ignited in him, and you hope he is paying attention to the lines you draw in the sand, the limits he must not cross. Surely there are things you would hate if you knew of them, things you cannot censor because your experiences are so few, so you must trust that the Doctor can find his way through what is permitted and what is proscribed. And a small, shy part of you hopes he is not laughing inside at what you do and do not know of what he can bestow on you.

“Do you remember the safe word?” His eyes have grown large and dark, the pupils so widened that it gives him the look of a drug addict in the heart-pounding throes of a fix.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

And you do. Better this time, flowing more easily from you. There is a… flinch - a tremor, almost - that runs through the Doctor’s body when you say it, but he hides it so quickly that you doubt you even saw it in the first place.

“There are rules,” he tells you, his free hand wrapping around the slender shaft of the riding crop, arms flexing so that the tool bends in a slight arc in front of his chest, the soft glove-leather creaking faintly as it stretches. “Once we begin, you must obey me without question, without hesitation.” He sees the resistance in your eyes to his demand, but instead of angering him, it makes his smile widen even further. “Stare daggers at me if it makes you feel better, kleine Falke. You can even spit curses at me if it pleases you. I find no joy in breaking spirits, but you will do as I say, or everything stops. ”

He shifts closer to you, so close that you are trapped between his body and Heavy’s, so close that the warmth from his bare torso intensifies the heat from your own skin. “I will follow your rules, and you will follow mine.” He bends down to whisper in your ear. “For your obedience, I will pleasure you until you cannot take it any more… until you beg for me to have mercy on you.” The huskiness of his voice makes you tremble, the iron promise in his voice making the beat of your heart race, the delicious scent of his body collapsing the last of your hesitation. “Is that what you want?”

You can barely suck in a breath to give your quavering response: “Yes.”

His mouth is on yours, a kiss long and slow and deep to seal the agreement between you, the taste of his tongue igniting a fire that runs down your spine… dry tinder for the acute lust you harbour for him. A second, much briefer kiss on the nape of your neck marks Heavy’s withdrawal, and the cool air at your back tells you he is no longer there, and as the Doctor breaks contact between you, you see the Russian walk into the cloaking shadows. A silent guard, a mute observer to this negotiated, prurient coupling.

“Someone has been here before me,” the Doctor observes, the tip of his tongue trailing lightly over your bottom lip. “That is not polite, Bär. You and I will have words about this later, I promise you.

Heavy growls something from the corner of the room in response, and the Doctor turns his head slightly.

“Hypocritical as well. You were the one who said she needed discipline.”

That comment snaps your head around to glare into the darkness, mouth open in mild outrage. A finger under your chin brings your attention back to the man in front of you.

“Oh yes. Heavy wants to watch me control you. And you know…” He stretches his arms up and behind his head in a smooth, languid motion so that the riding crop rests along his shoulders, hands clasping each end of the black leather switch as he shifts his weight over to one leg. “… I’m very, very good at that sort of thing.” The soft certainty of his words, the tilt of his hips and the self-assured smirk on his face are deliciously galling. Your annoyance serves to amuse him, and he moves forward so that his body presses against yours, forcing you to tip your head up and back to look at him, but you’ll be damned if you let him cow you, so you hold your ground.

_Do not let him bully you._

You’ve had assertive lovers before. It did not bother you because you made sure that you could be just as demanding, just as decisive. If the Doctor wishes to be the martinet, then you will play his game.

_Make him work hard._

You want to find out just how good he is at bridling your desire, how skillful he can be at wrangling the fickle, slippery eel of your libido. Let him work without the net of your assertiveness and discover how taxing you can be.

_Make him do what you want._

You’ve told him what you wanted. He asked. He had little trouble pleasuring you before, but now a gauntlet has been thrown down. If he wants to blow your mind, you’ll have to be sly in order to burn his fingers without him noticing.

_Make him sweat._

That will come down to strength of will. If the Doctor is going to draw this out until you beg, you had better make him gasp before you plead.

The leather strap fastening around your neck brings your eyes back into focus, cutting short your internal circumspection. Your head pulls back like a wilful, unbroken horse, but the Doctor holds the loop of his belt tight in his hand.

“By all means, keep pulling if you want to mark your pretty neck,” he tells you, gazing at you through half-closed eyes. “But I suggest you get down on your knees.” There is a thread of steel in his voice, a mark of his declaration to accept no stubbornness from you.

Your flare of defiance is harder to overcome than you realised, and you come close to accusing him of lying, of tricking you into something designed to debase you. But you made an agreement, and he promised to give you what you wanted. So you will bend your neck, figuratively and literally, and challenge him to prove his ability to fulfil his end of the bargain. You let the sneer on your face remain as you kneel before him, head tilted up and to the side so that the buckle doesn’t pinch the skin of your throat.

One boot raises slowly, the sole placed on the long strap and pushing down until you are forced to double over, head turned to one side so your cheek rests flat on the ground. Your eyes focus on the unmarked heel as it comes to rest in front of your face, then travel up to the exquisite carving spreading up from the instep and along the inside of the calf. You wanted a closer look at it, and it does not disappoint. The lush, glowing leather is tattooed with perfectly detailed leaves and branches in interlacing patterns, winding around oval bowers. Bowers that hold birds… doves. Paired. And mating.

“Do you like them?” he asks you. “I bought them especially for you. If you’re a good girl, I’ll even keep them on when I fuck you. And I know how badly you want that.”

Yes, he’d seen the desire in your eyes that first time. A desire that, admittedly, he’d denied, along with the belt you’re certain now he’d wanted to leash you with, but as a compromise, he had relinquished his need just as he had refused yours. Now, both would be fulfilled. Provided you did as you were told, of course.

The wanton, embossed metaphor in front of your eyes makes you crane towards the Doctor’s anchoring foot, and your lips part as you inhale, taking the rich, earthy scent of pristine leather deeply into your lungs. Your tongue slides along his ankle, the tip of it tracing the rises and troughs of the carving. It is how you have chosen to show your appreciation for this gift, an open admission and acceptance of your fetish. You taste your way unhurriedly up the Doctor’s calf, noting that he allows you to continue by releasing his tight grip on the end of the belt and lifting his weight off his foot to allow the leather to slip under the arch of his boot. You’re sure to place a wide-mouthed, suckling kiss on each of the mating doves. The end of the belt thumps to the floor as you reach the top of the boot, just below his knee, but instead of rising further, you dip your head back down, this time to the other foot, to lavish the same devotion up the inside of his leg. This time, when you reach the top, you continue, the smooth, thick fabric of his trousers gliding over your lips. You breathe in deep as you nuzzle up his thigh, the tip of your nose seeking evidence of his body’s response to your wordless attentions. You are not disappointed. He is already noticeably aroused, but the length of him is drawn oddly to one side. You trace your mouth along it, lips wide to bracket the thickness, but he returns his grip to the belt strap, pulling your head away from his groin.

“Patience,” he tells you, the end of the word hissing through clenched, perfect teeth, and you are dragged up on to your feet again. “Take your clothes off,” he instructs you, taking a step back to give you room. “All of them.”

You remember how he stripped off his clothes for you, the lithe and fluid ease with which he revealed his body, and you know you cannot match it, but you try nonetheless. In your own way. The belt wrapped around your neck makes the whole exercise a challenge, but you manage as best you can. You make sure that the slide of your shirt slows as it slips over your chest, that you turn your back to him as you push your trousers down and over the firm swell of your behind, bending forward so that the fabric of your underwear stretches tight over your flesh. Perhaps he is sharp-eyed enough to spot the dampness you feel between your thighs before you straighten and turn back to face him. Instead of unhooking your bra, you slip your hands in and underneath your breasts, lifting them out from behind the pale blue cotton so that they’re kept high and round and pressed together by the tension of the material sitting below them. You glide your hands over your skin to linger on the flushed peaks to sweeten the delay of obeying the Doctor’s demand, before sweeping your hands back and unclasping the metal fastener. You toss the bra aside and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your knickers when the leather of the crop’s keeper brushes over the back of one of your hands.

“I’ve changed my mind. Lay down on the bed.” He uses the crop and the belt to direct you where he wants you to go. “On your back.”

You are barely prone when he is on top of you, straddling your hips and pinning you down. “Hands on the bar,” he orders, and you curl your fingers around the thick wooden crosspiece of the bed-head. Black rope is wound quickly and efficiently around your wrists, holding your arms in place over your head, and knotted securely so you are unable to move as the Doctor’s hands rove over the surface of your body, learning the planes and dips and curves that lay below him, finding what makes you gasp and what makes you moan. Testing what has you writhing and straining at your bonds. Telling you just how he means to control you, to draw out your pleasure into an accelerated king and neap tidal cycle of arousal with his hands, with his mouth, with his voice as he switches between his native and his learned tongues effortlessly. He takes his time in employing the use of his physical tongue, interspersing the liquid trail of it with cautioning nips of his teeth to make you lie still as he sinks lower. Teasing you through moistened fabric is a sweet little side-game for him. The Doctor nudges that graceful nose against hot, cushioning flesh, inhaling deeply. It seems animalistic… a predator assessing the ripeness of his prey, of how easily he can pounce and consume at his leisure. Lips brush lightly over the material, a slow and definite sweep of tongue going from low to high, staring you in the eyes as he does it, making the action all the more depraved for it… a promise of how he will savour the taste of you for as long as he wants. With teeth and hands he strips the last of your clothing from you, leaving you bare, glistening and plump. You don’t know which of the two of you is hungrier for him to start.

He learns quickly how to tell when you’re moving too swiftly towards orgasm, deciphers how to manipulate your body to dam the flow of luscious sensitivity and then release it in an ever-increasing flood. Back and forth, guiding you down paths he has set for you, that he will not let you turn from. He is merciless, using the razor-thin, red-tinged gilt of pain when it seems you are slipping out of the carnal grasp he has on you, not hesitating to sink his teeth into you when he deems it necessary. The mark of his pinching incisors litters your skin, a bouquet of rich pink petals that speak of his fervency in controlling you, branding you as his, reminding you that right now your pleasure is in his strong, knowledgeable, wicked hands. But you find that the biting starts to enhance rather than detract from the effects of the hot, silken clasp of his mouth and the firm pressure of his tongue, head buried between your thighs, fingers pushing in deep to curl and stroke and scoop the slickness out of you.

Your awareness of time passing leaves you while you writhe atop perspiration soaked sheets as the Doctor squeezes and milks your body unrelentingly. Cool, thick glass slides into you, an extension of his hand as he besieges you with the guttural, incomprehensible promises he hisses in your ear, thrusting this unyielding imitation of an erection in and out of you slowly and firmly until the glass has absorbed the heat of your body, the lack of rough friction allowing that rare, gradual and delectable engorging and lengthening of the inside of you that will ensure he can push every inch of his cock deep into you when he is ready.

He makes you watch him as he licks the glass clean of the pale white cream this uninterrupted plunging has made of your clear, silky lust, before tossing the toy aside and untying your hands. The surge of blood into your fingers is painfully sudden and you clench your hands repeatedly to bring feeling back into them as you sit up.

The Doctor gives you no time to attend to effects of the rope bindings, pulling the free end of the belt still around your neck until you are on your knees once again before him, gasping raggedly, millimetres from his still-hidden erection.

“Now you can have it,” he growls at you. Your hands are smacked briskly away from the buttons. “Use your mouth!”

In some ways this is a blessing, since the feeling has returned to your hands, but in the form of ice-tipped pins and needles that make your fingers shake. You surreptitiously massage your hands together as you pull the Doctor’s trousers open with your teeth. Stark, bright red silk meets your eyes as you nuzzle the black fabric of his now-open trousers aside, and you realise that he has wrapped one of his ties along the length of his cock and around his hips to hold the evidence of his own arousal tight against the juncture of his thigh with his body. The wide end of the tie trails from a slip knot and you pull it free with your teeth. As the sweat darkened silk falls away, the glint of silver reveals that the tie wasn’t the only thing binding him. A smooth, half-inch wide cock ring must have held him in a throbbing perdition before you had even walked through the door. He is thicker and harder than you remember him being, veins pushed to their limit by blood that has flowed in but not been allowed to escape with any ease, shaft taut and flushed, leading to a rich, succulent head, that makes you eager to taste it while it is in this tortured, tumescent state.

So you do. It is hot and delicious, and while it is tempting for you to use your teeth in a manner you know he likes, you salve tender flesh with tongue and lips. When you blow gently on glistening skin, you feel his thighs shake under your hands and see the rhythmic contraction of the muscles in his abdomen. His fingers twine into your hair to anchor your head still, the thumb of his other hand slipping into your mouth to press down on your back teeth, opening your jaw wider and guarding against the chance you might reflexively bite him as he sinks his cock into your mouth. Deeper. And deeper. You open your throat to him, easier now that he no longer has a grip on the belt around your neck, but the angle is poor, and his thrusts are not as great as he would like, and he hits the back of your throat too soon.

“Lay down, Spätzchen,” he sighs, pulling out of your mouth reluctantly. “I want to see your lips kiss silver.”

With your head draped back over the edge of the bed, the Doctor can now push in so much farther. Legs spread wide, he rocks his hips back and forth, sliding over your tongue and deep into your throat, slowly enough for you to become used to it, slowly enough so you don’t choke or bite because he cannot guard against your teeth now. His hands are planted on the bed beside your hips, and he uses them to stabilise himself so he can thrust. His cock stretches your throat firmly, taking you to the beginning of your gag reflex and flirting along the edge of it until your tolerance increases. Then further in, under you feel the rounded edge of that silver cock ring press against your mouth, the brush of pubic hair against your face and the caress of his open trousers against your cheeks.

“Sehr gut,” he whispers, and begins to pump his hips so that his cock slides back and forth down your throat. Just a little way at first, then increasing so that luscious head squeezes past your tongue and gives your moans a glottal hitch.

“Do not touch yourself unless I tell you,” the Doctor snarls at you, not breaking his rhythm, and you realise that you have your fingers dipped deep into yourself. You pull them out reluctantly and curl your hands into white knuckled fists. Selfish of him to steal pleasure from you, but the taste of him fills you, saliva leaking out from around his girth and trailing into your hair. How you wish you could see the plunge as he draws nearly clear of your mouth before sliding back in, the peristaltic flexing along your neck, the pulsing clench and release of his muscles, the expression on his face as he fucks your throat, so masterfully.

He pulls out abruptly with a curse, leaving you gasping and choking, and before you know it, you’re flipped onto your front over his knees. The crack of his palm on your bottom makes you buck and squawk.

“What did I tell you?”

_Whack._

“Or do you think you can disobey me and get away with it?”

_Whack._

The skin on your rump stings sharply where he strikes it, his left forearm pushed against your upper back to keep you down against his thighs. Your bare feet try to gain purchase on the floor, but the smarting smacks have you flinching and writhing erratically to escape.

“I told you not to touch yourself.”

_Whack._

“That was not a suggestion.”

_Whack._

“I asked for your total obedience and I will have it.”

“You arsehole!”

_Whack._

“I can keep this up all night, you know.”

“You arrogant shit!”

_Whack._

“I’m starting to think you like being spanked.”

“Son of a bitch!”

_Whack._

“You know what you need to do to end it.”

That stops your struggle dead, your teeth centimetres from latching on to his leg, lips pulled back into a snarl of frustration, eyes smarting from the burning impacts of his open hand.

The safe word? No! It is too soon. Everything was going so deliciously until… until you disobeyed. You hadn’t even been aware of doing it, but you can feel the slipperiness of your fingers and you know that the fault is yours.

You don’t want it to end here. You want more. Not the spanking, no. You want the delectable, depraved, dizzying delight he has brought you. You want him to take you through every one of your secret pleasures unhurriedly. You want to savour the physical, carnal worship between two hungry lovers. You want him to fuck you until you drop.

The room is silent except for your panting, and you know he has his hand raised. Waiting.

He has given you a choice: to stop the disobedience, or to stop it all.

Your hands wrap around his ankle, and you press your mouth against the leather of his boots, tilting your hips back to raise your bottom up.

“Yes, Doctor.”

You have made your choice.

And he rewards you for it, hooking his arm under your stomach and turning you so that you must hold yourself up off the floor with shaking arms as he buries his face between your buttocks, delving into the honeypot and sucking hard as if to draw the blood away from your smacked flesh and through your clit, making you groan.

He wrestles you back on to the bed, but binds your wrists to the bed frame once more. This time you are on your front, allowing him to lap and lick at the hand marks he has left on your behind, grazing them with his teeth. Pleasure and pain combine in a swirling relish.

You are certain it is deliberate that he hisses in German in your ear to leave you ignorant of whether he is praising you or castigating you, driving his cock between your buttocks to slide across tight, sensitive flesh, hips driving down firmly and sharply so that with each thrust, there is a cushioned but merciless pummeling of your clit against the mattress. It isn’t long before he has you crying out in wordless delirium at the sensations.

You lose track of the positions he bends and twists you into, of the ways he ties you up with rope and strap, and the times he takes you right to the edge with his tongue and his hands and his cock before dragging you back. Teasing you with that phallic glass as his hips snap forward to plunder your throat fervently. Stroking your body with that riding crop, ravaging you with the long handle of it. Squeezing your breasts with his large, strong hands, fingertips pinching softly as he demands you press your thighs together tighter so he can stroke his cock between your taut muscles, pushing your head down so that you can watch the way it rakes back and forth, parting your flesh with long, wet spears.

You try and hold on, convinced that each time he grapples you towards that ecstatic peak that you will be unable to stop, but it is a more formidable task that you had ever imagined. The Doctor delights in torturing you, in dangling you over that precipice and threatening you with a toe-curling, jaw-clenching, pulsating climax that you cannot control. But you can see the sweat covering his body and the eagerness of his movements that clash with the self-satisfied command of his voice. You can feel the tremor in his muscles and the heaving of his chest that increases in intensity. You can hear the tightness in the rasp of his voice and the flagrant, wet lash of skin against skin, flesh against flesh. And you know from the slick grip of the Doctor’s hands, the pounding power of his hips and thighs, the strain and swell of vein, the red flush over throat and along cheekbones and down shaft, and the bite and cut of his teeth that he cannot last much longer. And nor can you.

He routs you from behind, trousers still up around his hips, boots still on - just like he promised. Both of you on all fours.

“Spätzchen, I can hardly wait until Heavy takes you,” the Doctor reveals, mouth next to your ear, his cheek rubbing firmly against you like a cat claiming possession. “I want to see him make you gasp as he fucks you. It will be exquisite. You will have never felt anything like it, I promise you.” 

The blood in your cheeks makes your skin burn as you recall that Heavy is watching you from the darkness, watching as his German lover plunders your body with his own, wresting slick, taut delight out of you. Even after all this measured, methodical, lascivious manipulation of your flesh, you’re snug tight, engorged tissue sliding into and flowing over yours. Your shoulders stiffen in alarm at the thought of Heavy inside you like this, and the Doctor feels the constriction run through you.

“Oh, don’t be frightened,” he croons, all soft velvet and smooth silk. “I’ll make sure it won’t hurt. Trust me, you’ll want every last, delicious inch inside you.” One hand lifts to your throat, stroking gently to calm you, weight shifting to his legs, hips focusing more pressure with each thrust. “I want to see him squeeze that glorious cock of his so deep into you.” A gasped, ragged wish confessed with a moan, palm sliding down from your neck to your breast, cupping its fullness and kneading slowly, fingertips teasing, merciless. 

You begin to feel the surge of heat flush up your neck, the slight change in the angle of penetration aligning the Doctor’s cock perfectly with a point inside you you never thought you had.

“I want to see your body swallow him up, and then I will fuck you. I want to feel him thrust inside you. I want to feel you tighten around him as he does it. I want him to feel me fuck you from behind. I want to hear you beg for more. I will make you beg for more. Oh, you will beg for more,” he vows, hand burying between your thighs, fingers spreading so he can feel the slippery push of his flesh between them as it sinks into you, strong fingers squeezing against the hard shaft and sliding back to tease your throbbing clit. Back and forth. Back and forth.

This simultaneous manual manipulation of you and he drives you crazy, and before you can stop it, the ragged word slips from your mouth: "Please?"

That solitary word tips him too far into his lust, and his body rears up from yours. Damp fingers entwine in your hair to pull your head up and back, baring your throat, anchoring his weight through knee and foot so he can ride you thoroughly, a growl rising up from his chest into his throat as his hips pound against you, sweat-drenched skin smacking louder and faster. The muscles in your legs bunch and strain as you try and hold yourself level but the bed is rocking back and forth so much that you have to push back at a strong angle to stop the Doctor from fucking you flat on to your face because you know that wouldn’t stop him, wouldn’t stop the powerful plunge into you, wouldn’t allow you the strength to match this bestial rutting he is pummelling you with. The heels of your palms dig into the mattress to help you find purchase, driving you back as hard as he is spearing forward. Until you feel him lean back, spine arching, the heel of his boot ramming down as his thrusting grows wilder and wider in its arc, as the growl turns into a groan, as the tight drawing-up of his balls under his cock tells you how close he is. His double-handed grip on your hair is bordering on painful, the pull lifting you up off your hands for the briefest of moments before the tidal wave of his orgasm slams into you, once… twice… three times and then you are drowning in your own climax, your body drinking the long, pulsing surges of his cum eagerly, toes curling, muscles rigid and shaking, the moans torn forth from you both entwining in a chorus of savage pleasure. And still the Doctor fucks you, finding a new, slower rhythm that prolongs your orgasm into smaller, sweeter bursts of peaking that make your ears ring and tickles your thighs with the hot ejaculate that is cored out of you with his diminishing onslaught into you, panting breath just behind your ear.

“Ausgezeichnet!”

The sweat leaking into the corners of your eyes makes them sting, blurring your vision as Heavy walks from his shrouded corner towards you. It was only at the end that you’d remembered he had been in the room, the Doctor manoeuvring you both into the perfect position for the Russian’s voyeuristic delight, promising in a lust-thickened voice of what still awaits you, of what they will relish doing to you when they both take you at once. But your eyes are at the exact height to see that Heavy has taken no physical relief from the erotic display, the cloth of his trousers pulled and stretched tight: a hunger still unsatiated. His hands must’ve been nailed to the chair to have not stroked himself to fulfilment. And you wonder if restraint comes from his own will or that of the Doctor’s, whether or not you were the only one being moulded and tempered and honed.

The Heavy crouches down in front of you, calm face contrasting with the insistent, powerful surfeit of need trammelled behind thick cloth. But you can tell from the dilation of his pupils and his flared nostrils that it is still a significant exertion of control to keep himself in check.

It is a struggle not just to hold yourself up, but the Doctor as well. He shows no sign of moving, forehead resting between your shoulder blades, hands pressed down on to the bed on either side of yours, quietly humming that tune you’d first heard the morning after they’d proven to you that two was better than one. His hips are moving ever so gently, making you sway forward and back, your arms shaking from the effort to stabilise yourself so you don’t flop clumsily on to your front.

“What is he doing?” you ask Heavy, as quietly as you can, but it is more of a series of gasps than a smooth, subtle inquiry, the blood still surging in your body, heart squeezing in desperate endeavour, begging for aid from exhausted lungs.

Heavy leans to one side to look.

“Very little now.”

“No, I mean…” You lower your voice to as much a whisper as you can. “Why is he humming like that?”

“Is OK. Is like cat purr for him.”

It could be coincidence, but at Heavy’s words, the Doctor rocks his hips just a little more forcefully against you, just once, the humming slipping into incoherent, melodic German words, breath hot against your back.

“Did I make him work hard?”

“Yes. Did he do what you wanted?” Heavy asks in his deep, gravelly voice.

“Yes. Did I make him sweat?”

Heavy laughs at that. “Oh, yes. Is good. Doctor has had it too easy for too long.”

You shake your head in open disbelief. “I can’t imagine you’re easy.”

“Doctor tamed me long ago, solnyshko.” He raises one large hand and runs the back of one finger down the side of your cheek, his skin cool against yours. “You are the most challenge he’s had in a long time.”

“I can hear you, you know.” The lilting singing has stopped, vocal tone at your back going from blissful to piqued.

“You’re meant to,” Heavy tells him, not taking his eyes from your flushed face. That stroking finger slips under your chin to lift it. The Doctor’s voice stops him just as the Russian’s lips brush yours.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten your little transgression. It seems your own discipline needs attending to.”

You know from the expression on Heavy’s face that this is exactly what he was hoping for.


End file.
